Some Secrets Are Best Kept Hidden: Part One
by Rogue Novelist
Summary: Rated R for language. Cora White is a new resident in a town located practically in the middle of nowhere in Maine. She feels that the townspeople are hiding something from her. Something that she should know.
1. Chapter 1

"Carefully..."the young lady inaudibly warned herself as she skillfully sidestepped across the meager space in between the coffee table and the couch, pushing a small yet powerful apple red Dirt Devil along. "Careful, don't want to make a racket..." Really, no matter what noise she made, it would remain unheard over the thunderous roar of the vacuum cleaner. She wiped her slightly damp forehead with the back of an elegant hand as she switched the obnoxious cleaning device off. Then, she turned to the large couch to look at the man sleeping placidly. She quirked an eyebrow, placed both hands on her hips, and blew a soft, shimmering brown forelock out of her eyes. He managed to stay asleep...Asleep when the vacuum cleaner practically bellowed in his ear.

This man was often asleep on the couch when she came. He bothered not to comb his hair, change out of his plaid pajamas, wash up, or even sleep in his bed, never mind clean his opulent house. Why was the house so big? He lived by himself. Well, none of that really mattered. It needed to be regularly cleaned and maintained. And that was why young Cora White was there, standing before the coffee table, armed with Windex, a feather duster, and a Dirt Devil.

Mrs. Gavin, the man's old member of house maintenance (Cora didn't like to use the term "maid"), had quit for reasons yet to be known by Cora. The man told her that Mrs. Gavin didn't like him too much and only really fancied speaking with his late wife. Cora really didn't care too much about his personal life...Or at least she appeared to not care. Deep down inside, she really DID want to know more about this oh-so interesting author, Morton Rainey, other than his name, his ex, whose name was Amy, and Mrs. Gavin. His wife...She was deceased. The loss of Amy didn't seem to have much effect on Rainey, either. What an odd man.

Cora Blair White was a new resident in the area. It really was the middle of nowhere in western Maine. She found a way to enjoy it, nonetheless. She liked meeting new people, even if they were as weird as the puzzle-box Morton Rainey. The townspeople took a liking to Cora, and she a liking to them. They favored her helpfulness, patience, respect, and overall kindness to anybody. The town figured she had to be intelligent, but none were too sure. For all they knew, she could've been a bumbling moron. Luckily, she wasn't that at all. Whenever somebody had a problem, he or she was free to ask for her aid or counsel. Not a soul could be afraid of such an approachable woman whose brilliant hazel-green eyes lit up whenever she was addressed.

Of course, the residents didn't have all-out openness towards newcomer Cora. Invariably, the topic would be changed as quickly as possible when she endeavored to discuss her job. It was awkward. Usually people would avert their eyes, shift uneasily, and ask her the most idiotic question ever, like, "So how's the weather?" when they would be standing outdoors. For God's sake, why wasn't anybody NORMAL in this town?! What were they hiding from her? Was there some enormous secret they all desperately tried to keep? And why weren't people comfortable talking about her job?!?! Always, the conversation would change into some spontaneous topic! Always at the same EXACT place, too! It'd be, "Oh, so you clean houses? That's nice. Who do you clean for? Morton Rainey?!-- So how's the weather?" It always changed after Morton's name. The townspeople HAD to be jealous of him. There was no other reason to change the subject other than envy. He couldn't have been sour towards these people...He's such a nice man! Or she assumed he was. She hadn't spoken to him too much

"Mornin', Miss...Miss...Um...White! Miss White. Find the place okay?" sleepily yawned Rainey as he stretched out on his soft, plush couch.

"Oh, yes. No trouble finding it at all. Did you have a nice sleep? I hope I didn't wake you up," Cora returned, placing his freshly Windexed frames warily upon the table infront of him.

"No, no. You didn't wake me up. I woke up because...I dunno. I woke up because I woke up," he chuckled, his voice cracking from the effects of sleep. "And you can call me Mort. I'm not big on that 'mister' crap."

"Well, in that case, you'll have to call me Cora. You can shorten it if you can find a way to make it any briefer than it already is."

"It's a deal, Cor. When d'ja get here?"

"Hmm...I think around seven-thirty, eight o'clock-ish. I didn't know what time to come so I figured I'd come early and get out of your way for the rest out the day so you can go about writing in peace. Geez, Mort, you can sleep through ANYTHING. I ran the vacuum right by your head and you still didn't wake up!"

Morton flashed his metal smile as he ran his hand through his unkempt hair. He set his frames on his face and glanced over at Cora. Why did the girl choose to clean houses? She was so good with people...So sincere and amicable. A girl like her could become a highly-paid secretary or maybe a business woman of some sort. He cerebrated this thought as he popped the butt of a cigarette in his mouth, lit the other end, and watched the graceful woman disappear into the kitchen.

"Mort???" Cor's voice echoed from the kitchen.

"Mmm?" Morton answered while in the middle of inhaling a lungful of smoke, sitting up.

"Where do you want this dishwasher detergent?"

He exhaled the gray-white through his nose before saying anything. "Uh...Put it where ever it fits, just not in the fridge, freezer, or pantry." And with that he eyed the grayness, watching it curl and writhe about in the air until it faded.

"Are you smoking again?!" she snapped.

"Yeah."

"Those things will--"

"Kill me. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I don't give a shit."

"Morton..." White trailed in a lower, warning-type voice.

"Cora..." Mort mimicked, reluctantly putting the cigarette out in the ashtray.

He did tell himself that he would make a fair attempt to turn over a new leaf. He lied to himself. He was still a mess, as before. Oh, he started out magnificently. Braces were put in, he got new glasses, his hair was trimmed...But none of that new leaf bull lasted more than a week. His new glasses were soon swapped with his old and worn-in pair, the braces were getting removed that weekend because he couldn't stand them, and his hair was almost never combed unless he needed to go out in public. His smoking habits hadn't gotten any better, but they hadn't gotten worse, either.

This new maid was sometimes quite the annoying harpy. Every single freaking time he tried to enjoy a nice smoke, she'd upbraid him about death and all of that crap. But on the other hand, he truly appreciated it, even though he kept striving to tell himself that she was just a bothersome little pest. She was the only one who showed the slightest care for him after the...incident, and it was always comforting to know that she did care, despite the fact that her opinion--well, factual information-- often drove him to the brink of insanity. Was she to be trusted? Could she be trusted? He needed somebody to talk to. Desperately. Kept inside was a dirty little secret. The town accused him of the disappearance of his wife. He hadn't admitted to it, nor did he deny it. The truth was, he really did do it. He murdered Amy and her boyfriend behind his own house...and then buried their bodies in his very own garden. All of this was stored away in the back of his mind. Oh, how he longed to share the burden of keeping the horrible secret from pouring out of his mouth.

Mort wasn't upset that he'd done it, for he WANTED to get rid of her. That bitch...She still called him whenever something went wrong. Why? She HAD a boyfriend. He didn't know why, either. It was most irksome. He had his own dilemma when the house that HE BOUGHT and she lived in with that MAN burnt down. Guess who Amy called? Him. It wasn't his problem. He didn't live in the house ? Can I tell you something?" Mort addressed. Soon enough, there she appeared, standing infront of him with her brilliant optics lit and a countenance of attentiveness. He looked up at her with his deep, chocolate-brown eyes, very calmly. He shifted in his seat, looked to the table, and then returned his gaze to the woman who failed to lose interest in what he had to say.

"You can tell me whatever you'd like," she said thoughtfully.

This was it...He was finally going to relieve himself of the stress of the horrific secret. Finally. Oh, he could imagine the relief he'd feel after he told somebody. He'd probably be able to cope with his braces and quit smoking.

"Well, you'll have to--Nevermind. Nevermind. I forgot what I was gonna say."

No he didn't. He didn't forget. He was too afraid...He was afraid of what her reaction would be. She'd tell the police and he'd be arrested and his garden would be excavated and the bones would be found and he'd be in jail for the rest of his miserable existence on Earth.

Cora smiled sweetly at him and turned to finish her work after saying, "When you remember, I'll be ready to listen."

Morton winced. She was too nice to put a burden on, anyway. But...He couldn't carry it all himself. He groaned, threw himself onto the couch, and went back to sleep...


	2. Chapter 2

Weeks passed. It was basically just the same old routine every two days. Cora would let herself in, go about her cleaning, and then leave. Most of the time Mort was asleep and never noticed her coming in or leaving. Sometimes she was led to think that he really never woke up from the last time she came because he was always laying there on the couch, in the same exact position, napping his life away. And he dozed so silently, too.

There was one time, on a Tuesday, Mort slept so noiselessly that Cora figured that he had passed away! Cora Blair had accidentally dropped a china plate on the floor that morning, and the shattering of the plate after it hit the spotless tiled floor made such a cacophony that it echoed throughout the whole entire house. Surely, noise like that would have roused the heaviest sleeper in the world...But when she poked her head into the living room, Morton hadn't stirred the least bit. Oh, how she panicked! She tried everything! She poked him in the ribs, shook him, shouted in his ear, and STILL he failed to even make the slightest twitching movement. It was discovered that he still lived when she accidently sprayed him in the face with a generous dash of Lysol. He went into a coughing convulsion after that. The tide of guilt was so overwhelming that the least she could possibly do was make up for it. So later that morning when he awoke, he found a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon in the microwave. He hadn't remembered anything about coughing, and couldn't figure out why she had done such a thing for him.

Mort's detrimental habits steadily grew worse. He blew off work, started to smoke excessively, was almost always nodding off, and worst of all, he ate almost nothing aside Doritos and drank nothing but soda. It was most damaging to his health and his teeth. His teeth. ...His braces.

"Ah, shit! The orthodontist!" hissed Mort, his eyes snapping open in an instant. He leapt off the the couch with a jolt of energy and briskly shuffled up the flight of stairs. Perhaps he'd gotten up a little too posthaste. His vision faded into blackness for just a second...Just long enough to keep him from seeing the closed bathroom door he collided into. "Crraaaappp...." he moaned, holding his throbbing forehead. Before his mind could recover, the door flew open and swung smack into his sleep befogged body and sent him stumbling backwards. What a morning!

"Oh, my God! Mort! I'm so sorry!!! I didn't know you were there! You're usually not up this early!" Cora hastily apologized, taking Mort into her arms and stroking his hair with a motherly air.

"Eh, don't worry 'bout it, Cor. I'm fine. I just need to get into the bathroom before I'm late," Morton replied collectedly. He carefully wriggled out of her comforting grasp and made his way into the bathroom, stepping diligently over the mop on the floor and over to the mirror.

He stared at himself, running a hand through the bird's nest he called his hair. As he went about cleaning himself up, he thought about Cora and her kindly manner. It was really no wonder why the girl was so loved in Tashmore. She was just SO God-damned NICE! Didn't she ever get annoyed or angry? She had to have gotten angry one time or another. He wished Amy could've been like her. Caring. Thoughtful. Heart-felt. That wasn't Amy. Amy was cold. Stupid. Malicious. Amy released John Shooter...It was all her fault. Mort Rainey didn't kill Amy. John Shooter killed Amy and buried her in that garden. Would John Shooter hate Cora, too? Would John Shooter dispose of Cora and also bury her in the little garden? There was no reason to. Mort was musing when he saw it. His optics grew wide in horror as the image in the mirror morphed. It twisted into a visage that he didn't recognize as his own.

"What's the matter, Mr. Rainey?" a stony voice drawled with a hint of a southern accent. "Forget about me already?"

"L-leave me alone, John!" retorted Mort, shuddering at the sound of that awful voice. And there he saw the man that tormented him so. John Shooter. The man he supposedly stole a story from. He tried to wrench his gaze from the mirror, but his eyes were fixed on the long face of Shooter.

"I can't leave yeh alone, Mr. Rainey. Don't you remember? You created me. I'm a part of you."

"N-no! Leave me be!"

No matter how much Mort denied it, what John spoke of was true. Mort created the character John Shooter one day when he bought a black hat. And now John haunted Mort. John made Mort do things he wanted to do, but he couldn't do because of his personality. John Shooter was Morton Rainey's malevolent, monstruous other half.

Cora quirked an eyebrow when she identified the noise coming from the bathroom. It was Mort...And he was...Arguing with himself. She listened to him going back and forth in conversation as two people. Himself and another person named John. For John, Mort threw on an accent, and spoke normally for himself. It was all very interesting. Apparently, John wouldn't leave Mort alone. She shrugged and continued on with her cleaning. Mort was such a peculiar man.

Moments later, Mort left the bathroom. He hair was neatly combed, and he was dressed in brown dress-pants and a casual gray sweater. As he was putting on his shiny, onyx-colored shoes, he heard a call from upstairs. "Where are you going, Mort?" It was Cora. At first, he thought it was Shooter.

"Orthodontist!" he responded, tying the laces on his left shoe.

"Your appointment was two weeks ago!"

Morton froze for a moment to comprehend her words, put a hand on his forehead, then sat down right where he was. "Damn..."


	3. Chapter 3

"Clarissa felt her heart pounding wildly on the constricting cage of her chest as the gap between her silky-soft lips and those of her steady boyfriend's older brother expeditiously closed. The unbridled pass--SHIT! DAMMIT, THAT HURT!!!" The pain served him right. Mort knew better than to probe the end of a pen in his mouth when he had that metal contraption in there. He was too absorbed in his work that it drew his attention away from everything else around him. A wire over on the bottom right side of his jaw slipped out of place and ripped open the delicate flesh on the inside of his cheek. He knew that it was a scratch, but when the acrid, distinguishable smack of blood rolled smoothly over his taste-buds, he discovered that it wasn't a petty wound. The displeasing sapor of blood sprung a rather rancid concept. ...Did all blood have the same taste? Maybe it depended on the person who did the tasting. But if the flavors were different...Why? Different blood type, perhaps? Ah. Inspiration for a vampiric novel.

Mort attempted to ignore the stray wire for a little longer to get his thoughts onto the word processor while his creativity was at its peak, except it began to feel as though it were going to poke itself out into the open through his cheek. He reluctantly hauled himself away from his laptop to take a look and perhaps repair the wretched dental apparatus. Once his face was close enough to the bathroom cabinet mirror, he opened his mouth and stretched his cheek with a hooked finger that burnt the gaping wound from that God-damned wire. It was of no use. No angle allowed him see that far back into his mouth without his finger getting in the way. He had nothing more to do but to stick his fingers into his mouth and blindly fix the broken nuisance. The stubborn wire shot back out of its place once more after Mort gave a victorious grin. The needle-like apex anchored itself deep into the profound slice, hauled itself across, and then drove itself clear through all of the remaining tissue. His optics started to tear as he let out a horrible cry to relieve a scant portion of the excruciating pain. A trembling hand moved slowly to explore the fatally wounded area...And there he found it. The end of the metal wire. It wasn't in his mouth...And his mouth wasn't opened. His whole body began to quiver uncontrollably as he found himself gawking at the amount of blood on his hand when ..._he_ returned.

_What's the matter, Mr. Rainey?_ that grisly voice of Shooter echoed clearly through his head. _Need a hand?_

"GO. AWAY," Mort growled aloud through clenched teeth. "I'm going to the doctor. Right now."

_Why? Just ask your new little friend to help you._

"No, that's all right, thanks much."

_Why not? I thought you liked her. I thought she was nice to you._

"One; She's not here. Two; She's no doctor. Three; I don'tlike her!"

_Oh...You don't? Then...You wouldn't mind if I got rid of her?_

"Listen, you bastard! I want you to stop trying to destroy my already miserable life by getting me thrown into a fucking jail cell!"

_Mr. Rainey, if you continue to have such a truculent disposition towards me, it'll backfire and I'll make your life a living hell._

"I don't give a damn, Johnny-boy, because you've already done that!"

_You asked for it._

Mort's stomach lurched and suddenly he felt even more ill than he did before. Shooter's sentence didn't fade out of his mind. Those words. They were venom. Was Shooter bluffing just to bully Mort into releasing his inner rage so then he'd be able to use Mort's body to do what he pleased? He damn-well hoped not...Because it was working.

Cora stepped into the house at the precise moment. Mort was about to phone her and ask her to escort him to a hospital.

"Hey, Mort! Are you home?!" she hollered, barely loud enough for him to hear from just about anywhere in the house.

"Yeah. Upstairs. I need help. NOW..."he replied tranquilly, as not to arouse any alarm. Of course, knowing her as well as he did at this point, he already knew that she'd flip when she saw him.

_I thought you said you weren't going to ask for her help._

Mort hissed quietly,"Shut the hell up...Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

_What if I said that it's you who's thinking up what I'm saying? After all, you did create me, Mort, ol' pal._

"It's Mr. Rainey, bastard."

_Just keep that up, Mr. Rainey. You're doing a splendid job._

"MORT!!!" Cora shrieked at the gruesome sight. "What in Hades did you do to yourself!?" She immediately began to gingerly mop thick, red, sticky blood off of his face and neck with her scarf.

"My braces...They broke."

"Well, I can see that."

_You like that, don't you, Mr. Rainey?_

_"Leave me alone, Shooter.. Just leave. Me. ALONE,"_ Mort attacked in his thoughts.

"Come on, let's get you to the emergency room," hurried Cora. She paused for a moment and gave him the once-over...Well, it would have been a once-over if her gaze hadn't halted at the broken wire emerging from his cheek to give salutations. "My God, Mort. Those are some rogue braces you have. Come here...I can't let you leave the house with that wire like that. Closer. Now open your mouth. No, no! Hold still! It'll only hurt for a second."

"Aghugeruhguluh!" Mort protested with his mouth hanging wide open. His words were slurred and inarticulate, for he didn't bother to close his mouth to speak. "Uhat aruh yooh gun woo do neeh?"

"What do you think I'm going to do to you?"

_Oh. Oh. Let me guess! Let me guess!_

Mort strived to ignore this niggling voice ringing in his head.

"Now just keep still. I'll straighten out this appaling...thing that's sticking out here."

_Well, you're going to enjoy this, Mr. Rainey._

_"Fuck off, psycho pansy."_

_Makes you think, dun' it? Who's really the psycho here? Who's the one who bought that hat at that garage sale? Who's the one who wanted to dispose of Amy? It wasn't me. It was you. I do what you want. _

_"Okay. I want you to go away."_

_I can't do that. I'm stuck here, now._

_"GO AWAY!"_

_If you just grab her by the neck and strangle her, she'll no longer bother you. It's simple, Mr. Rainey. All simple as tying your shoes._

_"You better keep the HELL away from her, dammit! She's done nothing wrong. She hasn't even tried to poke questions about Amy's disappearance at me. She isn't Mrs. Gavin, asshole. And if you hurt her, I'll hunt you down and maul you until you're a little bloody pulp!"_

_That would mean committing suicide._

_"Whatever it takes, fucker. Whatever the hell it takes."_

_You do like her. _

Mort had no toxic rebuttal this time. Maybe he did like her after all. He didn't veritably love her like he once did Amy. Cora was too nice. She'd be taken advantage of too easily. Women who couldn't defend themselves didn't quite appeal to Mort. He liked to have an argument once in a while. It was a kind of stress reliever...Unless the argument led to hatred and hatred led to lies and lies led to finding your spouse in a hotel room in bed with somebody who wasn't you. AGH. There he went again, his thoughts trailing over to Amy. He needed to forget her. He despised that woman even after she was dead!

He took a step away when the wire began receding back into his mouth. His head didn't move, to his dismay. Cora had too good of a grasp on him. "SHTLOP THAST IT HURSHT! CORAAAHHH! Shtlop!" he whimpered, desperately trying to get away from the insane girl.

"All right, all right. I'll leave you alone. What I'm going to tell you to do next is going to sound extremely stupid... But you need to keep your mouth open," she gave in, turning around to look out the window. "If you don't, the wire will--OH M'GOD!!! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT THING?!?" she cried in horror, pointing out the window.

Morts eyes widened in fear as he rushed to her side to stare out the window and see. What did she see? Was it a bear? Was it somebody chopping another person's head off with an axe? Was it the boogie monster?! But...Wait a second...There wasn't anything out there but a--"HOLY SHIT!!!"Mort vociferated, holding his cheek. It was now an endless supply of gushing, dark, thick liquid. There was nothing to see but a smug grin on Cora's face. She tricked him. That vixen tricked him! She wasn't all that kind after all. Bitch.

"Ooookay. Car. Now. Take my scarf. Don't let yourself bleed all over the place," Cora ordered, her little smile of victory fading from her visage.

"Buh wha abou ge'ing ready? I can' go like this," he objected. He still couldn't quite talk properly. She bent the wire into his mouth and it gave him little leeway to move his tongue for speech.

"Sure you can! Throw on a coat and comb your hair in the car. Now move!"

Mort shuffled along unwillingly, being whisked into a faster pace by his maid. His MAID. She wasn't acting like his maid. Perhaps it was because he was too used to Mrs. Gavin. Mrs. Gavin wouldn't have done any of this for him. She would have just called 911 and maybe stayed with them until somebody showed up, if he was lucky. Mrs. G never liked to talk about getting writers' block or mental breakdowns or Doritos! She never talked about anything except that she missed Amy and how much she loathed her job.

Cora enjoyed her job. Well, it appeared as though she liked her job. She'd come in, all bright eyed. Mort fancied the way she was always so thrilled to see him. People only acted that way towards him when he hadn't seen them for a while. Currently, people were happy to not see him. It was a sorrowful feeling, really...But he was joyous to have her company. Sometimes he'd catch her with her walkman on, singing along and doing an amazingly ridiculous dance-number with a feather duster in hand, making sure to incorporate cleaning in the number. He would have to run into the living room and stick his head in between couch cushions to stifle his insubordinate laughter.

A weak smile played upon his lips at this thought. At this point, he was already on the road in Cora's fire, apple-red, Mustang convertable. He watched the horizon...The trees...It was all so empty. He was going to be stuck in this car for an hour and a half with his cheek pouring and his tongue somewhat restricted from free movement, taking away his correct pronunciations of L and T. Cora turned on the radio and blared Sir Mix-a-lot. Mort didn't loathe the song, but if he had the choice, he'd pick something else. She was just so enthusiastic and cheery while she tried to sing along through laughs and giggles that he had to try, too. He never had that much fun. Not for as long as he could remember.


	4. Chapter 4

_I can see that you're having a good time._

_"Not for long."_

_Oh?_

_"For the thirty-fucking-fifth time; DISAPPEAR! Go away, dig a hole in the ground, crawl into it, and DIE will you?!"_

_Tsk. Hostility at its finest. Why don't you direct that hostility on dear Cora? You can get rid of her that way._

_"Fuck off."_

_It's quite simple. Just r--_

_"JUST SHUT THE HELL UP."_

_If you won't dispose of her, I will._

"You all right, Mort?" Cora posed. She turned her head to look at him for a moment before fixing her eyes upon the long stretch of asphault ahead.

"Mhmm. I can handle it for a little while longer,"he retorted, regaining the ability to pronounce all of his letters. "D'ya think you can turn on some music? Maybe something I'll know?"

"Oh, sure! You could've just turned the radio on yourself. You're welcome to do that whenever. Are you bored?"

He nodded as his optics followed the path of her hand down to turn the stereo knob, then to a CD, back to the radio panel where a few buttons were pressed, and finally to the volume and bass-level lever. Mort barely had the time to brace himself during the hissing radio-like silence before a running bass line exploded into being, so spontaneously that the whole car appeared to hop on the first note. The startled author leapt in his seat and screamed as a result of the sudden obnoxious bellowing of the car's speaker system. As he sat there with his eyes wide and his breathing quickened, he recognized that wild beat. He calmed a bit, then brandished a smile. The song was used in a car commercial. The lyrics were at last approaching, and upon their arrival, the driver broke out in song simultaneously with the CD.

"I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt..."

And without warning, she pulled off her jacket and tossed it in a "sexy" way over her shoulder and into the backseat. Then, she ran her fingers through her long, shining brown hair, desperately struggling not to let her laughter make her fumble the next line. "So sexy it huuurrttttssss..."

Morton was laughing so uncontrollably that he couldn't keep his head up. What ridiculous antics!

_You trust her too much._

Damn. And Mort thought the music would drive that pest away.

_Hello? No answer? Come on, Mr. Rainey._

_"Hello, this is Morton Rainey, and I'm busy at the moment. If you are a publisher, press 1. If you are a friend or family member, press 2. If you are the orthodontist, press 3. If you are John Shooter, press 666 and go to Hell!"_

_Kill her. She'll only use you. She's already tricked you once. She can do it again._

_"She tricked me to HELP ME. Now, go away. Take a nice long vacation. Anywhere but in my head. Thanks much. Toodles!_

Unexpectedly Morton's body turned to face the driver of the car. His countenance transformed completely, twisting into an expression of hidden hatred. Though his face showed no emotion in particular, the malicious fire in his eyes portrayed pure enmity. He let his brows droop, as if he didn't care to use the muscles to keep them lifted. It gave his fine-boned, gorgeous face such a displeasing look. Gradually his head slid into the position of a person who has stumbled upon a penny on the ground, yet his loathing optics remained upon the light-hearted woman with an increasing expression of resentment and disgust.

Cora took note of the abrupt alteration in Mort's mood. She watched it out of the corner of her eye.

"You okay?" she questioned nervously, a calm demeanor painted over her equally nervous face.

"Oh, I'm fine. Really, I'm fine,"he responded...Or...Would have responded if his lips would have cooperated with him and moved on dictation. He quirked an eyebrow at this strange behavior. His brow refused to move as well. Nothing was moving on command. It were as if he was ripped out of a chair and thrown away from a control panel that was his body's functions. Instantaneously, he knew what had occured.

_"Shooter, you son of a bitch! Let me out! Get your sorry ass back in here!"_

_I warned you, Mr. Rainey. I did. You can't tell me I didn't._

_"Dammit, she hasn't done anyting!"_

_As far as you know, there's nothing wrong with her._

_"What does that mean?"  
_There was silence. Dead silence.

_"Shooter...Talk to me. John! God damn it!_

Mort's hand extended into the pocket of his robe and groped around for the oh-so popular tool he had used numerous times. Often, he used it at his desk. One of the screws in the drawer kept falling out, and he would have to keep fixing it, so he left it in his pocket. The last time he used it, however, was not to fix that pesky desk. His hand closed around the battered handle. At a deliberate pace, he drew it out and raised it up behind his head like a football. He paused a few seconds before bringing it down forcefully and double-quick. Cora acted more expeditiously than Mort and forced the steering wheel as far as it would go to the left. The car went for an unintended spin, tossing the possessed being violently into the back.

Cora slammed the brakes, and cautiously peered into the back, panting. He was out cold. He must have hit the rear window. She spun back around and settled into her seat, resting her head upon the steering wheel. Such a crazy, crazy man. The poor thing. She figured it must have been the result of living alone, or maybe being shunned by society. By the time she fully composed herself it was sunset. The car made its way swiftly down the road, quickly coming upon an intersection.

The woman peered into the rear-view mirror. No vehicles were behind. Nothing was behind but the road and her jacket upon the back seat. Nothing. Nothing?! The screwdriver whizzed over the top of her skull, missing her forehead by a small gap. By the time she had turned about to see Mort, the head of the old screwdriver came for her face. She was paralyzed in terror, her eyes following the screwdriver on its course to her face. She was a doe in the headlights. The entire world seemed to freeze except for the malignant tool. It grew larger and larger as it came closer and closer. The steel tip was soiled with dried blood. Cora knew she had to move. She saw the tool coming for her, the sitaution playing in slow motion in her head. Her mind told her to move, but her body refused to react. Was this why the people of Tashmore failed to talk about him? Her eyes shut tightly... This was it. It was all going to end for her like this.

Both Rainey and White shot into the roof of the convertable as it made a 180 degree flip. The metal frame of the car closed around them, trapping both of Mort's legs and Cora's arm. They were both screaming, tears streaming down their battered faces. Sparks flew as the car went skidding along the road. The engine ignited, the flame leaping up with a roar and then shrinking into a smaller fire. Cora's back was brutally singed.

"Cora! Cora!" Mort cried, watching the girl go unconscious. There was laughing...Morbid laughter echoing through the confines of his mind.

_Now we're all going to die. The engine's going to explode and there's nothing any of us can do to stop it._

_"YOU...IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!!!"_

_What are you going to do about it, Mr. Rainey? I'm safe in your imagination now._

_"If I die, you die with me. Remember, fucker?"_

_Of course I do._

Before Mort was able to riposte, his vision left him and he felt nothing. He heard nothing. Everything was peaceful...So tranquil...

Cora awoke abruptly to the sound of sirens. Her eyes fluttered open . The first thing she perceived was her car; A twisted heap of metal on fire with men climbing all over it and digging through it. Great. Next thing she found was that she was laying on a stretcher, strapped down, wrapped in bandages, and pierced with numerous tubes. Painfully she turned her head to look at the nurse.

"What the fu--" her voise rasped.

"Oh! You're awake! How do you feel?" the nurse questioned, being sure to cut the woman off before she was able to make use of the colorful word she was about to use.

"Like hell. Where's Mort?"

"Who?"

"Mort. The man who was with me."

"...What man? There was a man???"

Her heart sank. Tears flowed silently down her cheeks and onto the stretcher's pillow. They didn't find Mort...He was gone! Mort was gone! She felt so guilty, though it was because of his intentional murder scheme that made them crash. Somehow, she found it in her heart to care for him. There was something about him that made her think that he wasn't crazy or the least bit corrupt at all. "Oh, God...God, no...It's all my fault..."


	5. Chapter 5

"You have a visitor," announced the giant, moble stringbean whose whiter than white labcoat stung the weak patient's eyes. The doctor had a shiny head, was quite lanky, and carried the scent of a freshly finished wooden floor. Perhaps it was his head that was finished with the same finish used on wooden floors.

"Ugher..." the battered patient feebly replied, nodding to let the doctor know to allow his visitor to enter the room. Morton was still in the mystified stage, only having arrived to the hospital a few hours prior to the current time. He felt as though he was still trapped in the smoldering heap of twisted metal, just simmering away.

It had been moments after the second engine flame blazed that his companion, Cora, regained consciousness. It was in their last few minutes before almost certain death that Mort had realized how much the friendship he had with this person meant to him. And then the third and final flame had leapt up, soaring at least eight feet into the bright, red-violet sunset sky. It stabbed at Cora with its many red forks, searing the skin on her back until the point that it was nothing more than raw, oozing flesh.

"Cora!" he had burst out, feeling her hand firmly grasping his. "Hang on, Cor! Somebody'll come for us!" He really hadn't known if anybody would come for them.

She had spoken nary a word, but smiled weakly. Mort returned with his own attempt at a reassuring grin. And then, at last, her hand slid away from his, her invariably warm smile had diminished, and her body had gone limp. Mort had had no emotion or discreet sign of feeling within his scarred heart. All in that one second, all of his fear had gone. All comfort had been wrenched out of his very own two hands by the atrocity of the Grim Reaper. He stole her soul and would not even dream of returning it.

The novelist's vision had already begun to fade, along with the rest of his sanity. It was the doing of the fumes. They sent him whirling into an abyss of darkness and nothingness.

Having a visitor was strange, not to mention pointless. There was nobody else in the world who could have supplied him with such company. Perhaps a fan of his work came to the hospital to pay him a visit. Fans were always nice to see once in a while.

The doctor stepped aside, revealing a blur that was supposedly his visitor. Mort squinted, trying desperately to identify the blurred figure who steadily advanced. Frustrated, he just let his eyes shut. If the person really needed to speak with him, they would speak, whether his eyes were open or not. But the figure didn't speak. He felt the person's presence...He or she was quite close. Mort sensed the person drawing closer, particularly close to his face.

In an instant, his eyes snapped open. The woman screamed from the unpredicted movement, stumbling backwards into a chair beside the hospital bed. Mort, startled by the sudden outburst of screaming, also hollered in alarm. Both of them sat and took a moment to regain composure, panting with widened eyes. He turned to see his visitor. Glimmering brown hair, bright green-ish eyes, fair complexion, nice face structure. Ah, nice lady visitor.

"Hey, Mort!" she greeted blissfully.

Rainey's eyes broadened and his lower jaw fell at the voice of this woman. He had no words, despite the fact that he was a skilled author, to describe the overwhelming wave of emotion that filled his soul.

"C-c-c...C-c-c-c...C-c-c-c-c-c!"

"Shh! Don't you dare say anything, Morton Rainey! You'll waste energy that way!" she reprimanded in that clippy voice she liked to use for scolding.

"But I thought you died!"

Cora raised a delicate eyebrow. "Psh. You thought _I_ died!? I thought _you_ died!"

"Nope. Some fire-fighter hauled my ass out of there and almost ripped my legs off."

"When they got me out, I asked about you, and that one nurse asked me 'What man?'"

"Well, the only thing that matters now is that we're both okay. Why the hell did you ask them about me?"

Cora shrugged. "Because you're my friend."

...Friend? As in...An ally or supporter? Ami, amiga, amica? Mort didn't recall ever having a real one of those before. Not a true one, at least. In the past, they've all been malicious back-stabbers with the intent of manipulating him for his money. That was what Mort felt he was put into the world for. His purpose on Earth was to give and get taken advantage of. He gave money, he gave his trust, he gave friendship, and he gave love...And what was he stuck with now? A cheating, dead ex-wife and a bothersome voice echoing in his head invariably at the wrong moment.

Mort took the time to take a thorough glance at this woman to determine whether or not she was worth wooing. He couldn't help thinking about it. By this time, he missed the lifelong companionship of a woman...But before he could decide, a tide of pity collided forcefully into his guilty conscience when he took note of the faint trails left by tears. She _worried_ about him!Did it not occur to this woman that he did indeed make a nearly successful attempt at homicide directed towards her?

He propped himself up, seized Cora firmly by the shoulders, and promptly shook her. "Why, Cora White!?" he posed, battling the tears of guilt welling up within his eyes.

"...Why what, Mort?" she asked, dumbstricken by such a question.

"Why am I your friend?"

"Erm...Why not?"

"Why do you even care about me? I tried to _assassinate _you last night, did you notice that?"

"Uh-huh."

"Then...I don't understand..._Why_ are you here? _Why_ the hell did you tell them I was still in the car?! Nobody gives a crap if I'm dead! I'm not that important!"

"On the contrary, Mort. You're wrong. You're so wrong, that if you managed to make another untrue statement, you'd be so inconceivably wrong that you'd make gay porn movies look right."

"Oh. Is that so? Enlighten me."

"You're important.You may not think that you're important, but you're important to me. Where would I be if you weren't here? ...I'll tell you where. I'd be in that Hell-hole of a place where life was miserable and the air so polluted with noxious fumes that you'd die if you inhaled too much of it! You gave me a great job and something to look forward to. I couldn't rely on my family for the same thing you've provided me with, Mort. Happiness. And a sense of belonging. My family...They...Well, I won't get into too much detail, but they've disowned me after a little...Discovery of theirs. And you changed everything for me. You've made a difference in my life. And now I see that you're in a bit of a mess and that you need a hand, and I'm going to lend you that hand. Do you know how glum it would be for those fans of yours to hear that you've been stumbled upon dead by the tax collector two weeks after you've actually died because nobody gave a damn about you?! You don't deserve it!"

"Yeah, I do. There's something that I did...Physically. Mentally, it wasn't me, but...It was still my fault.

Cora gazed at him in her usual way; Intently.

He continued,"Months ago, I divorced with my wife. After the legal divorce...She died. And her boyfriend did, too," Mort explained calmly, lowering his voice to a subtle whisper. "Do you know how they died, Cor?"

She shook her head.

"Well, they were--"

"VISITING TIME IS OVER! Leave now! Mr. Rainey need his rest!" impolitely snapped a short, plump nurse who was on the verge of exploding from an enormous intake of Twinkies.

"Mr. Rainey will be unable to rest properly without telling his most welcomed visitor a little story," Mort retorted curtly, so tranquilly that the statement radiated the smart-aleck side he was capable of unleashing.

If looks could kill, Morton would have died at that very moment. The nurse exited the room, muttering something about five extra minutes and a pompous smart-ass. "Now where was I before we were so _CHURLISHLY_ interrupted?" he emphasised so that no set of ears could escape the boorish sentence. It seemed that not a soul was safe from his uncouth attitude. Even Cora would suffer the wrath sooner or later...But not now.

Her giggles provoked a proud grin. He liked to make people happy...That is, if they didn't take his kindness for granted and abuse it. "But seriously, now. Amy and Ted were both murdered. I was there when it happened," Mort continued.

Cora let out a slight gasp. "Why don't you turn the murderer in, then?" she posed, her voice lowered to a whisper.

"Because...I did it..."

"Oh, Mort! Th--"

"But wait! Wait, wait! Don't go psycho on me just yet, Cor. There's something I've been meaning to tell you since day one, but I havne't gotten around to doing so. There's this odd disorder I've had...It started after I found Amy cheating on me...There's a man named John Shooter. He doesn't actually exist, because I made him up one day, but I see him and often--"

"Hear him. Right?"

"Yeah! How did you know that?"

"An old friend of mine had the same problem. She learned how to cope with it, though. She's okay now."

"How??? Do you know?"

"Mhmm. Ignore him, Mort. He's nothing more than a fragment of your imagination. If you ignore him, he'll get bored and go away eventually."

"Really? Do you have this person's number? Maybe I can call her and--"

"Not to burst your hopeful bubble, Mort, but she likes it when the least amount of people as possible know her number."

"Oh..."Mort replied with a frown.

"Well, I better get going. I'll come and see you tomorrow," Cora said, beaming. Mort extended his arms, taking Cora into a warm embrace. "Get some rest, will ya?"

"Yeah. I'll try. See ya tomorrow, Cora."

"Bye,Mort!"

White stepped out of the room and leaned against the wall, directly to the left of the patient's door. Upon her face grew a little grin. And all of this time she thought that Mort was practicing to star in a play as some guy named John. Hah. How ridiculous of her to think that way.

"No, I don't have a crush on him!" she snapped, flushing violently.

A janitor quirked an eyebrow, looking down the hall at the woman. "You talkin' to me, Ma'am?"

"Oh, no!" Cora said sheepishly, turning an even brighter shade of red. "Sorry."

The janitor shrugged and went on mopping the floor. "Look what you made me do! Stop it!" he heard the voice yet again, coming from the woman. Well, if she wasn't talking to him...

"Who the hell is she talking to?!" he hissed to himself.

_Oh, sorry. Why didn't you tell Mort, Cora?_

_"Well, Tracy, some secrets are best kept hidden." _

END PART ONE


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